A Lesson in Gratitude
by redtaxi
Summary: Sherlock Holmes chooses a most inappropriate gift as means of thanks. Sherlolly.
1. His Lesson

My first and final attempt at smutty writing. I blushed way too much when checking my spelling of 'Clitoris'.

Apologises in advance for mistakes, wording sentences and possibly OOC Holmes.

Thank you for popping by.

* * *

It was an unforeseeable revelation that a two year long exile would be the force behind Sherlock's new attitude towards his friends. Friendship, he had always observed, was something most did out of superficial custom and while he acknowledged its occasional advantages, he didn't truly appreciate the notion of _having friends_ until the eight month of his 'trip', shacked up in a Siberian mountain hut, where their noticeable absence was particularly felt.

Since his return [a miraculous resurrection hailed the press, a case of fool's luck by his colleagues], Sherlock attempted to demonstrate this new sense of gratitude to his friends. Under John's encouragement, he found not only were his expressions of thanks well received but rendered successful outcomes for him as well.

An impromptu vase of flowers delivered to Mrs. Hudson ensured a week's dinner and a tidy kitchen. A pint of lager and an honest apology with Lestrade improved his company greatly. However, there were exceptions to John's advice; Anderson who in Sherlock's mind, did not deserve gratitude or otherwise, remained unresponsive to all his attempts, a somewhat unsurprising reveal to his character.

The 'new' Sherlock was rejoiced by his friends, particularly by an impressed John and while he was pleased with their responses, he was satisifed with all but one.

Molly Hooper was a crucial figure in his return to the living. She gave him everything he asked for; her expertise in covering his death, her home and space and most importantly, her silence. A bouquet of magnolias hardly seemed to be a fitting gift in comparison.

So he went with John's recommendation of a 'heart-felt' speech, ignoring his usual protocol in regards to this kind of sentiment, to properly give Molly Hooper the thanks she deserved.

Her response was surprising to say the least. While Sherlock anticipated a meek blush, a couple of unnecessary tears and maybe, an awkward initiation of embrace, the reality was far from these expectations.

She only smiled. She didn't even bother with an offer of coffee afterwards. Sherlock felt vaguely unsatisfied with this exchange. Of course it was preferable to an overly sentimental scenario, however, it was completely devoid of the characteristics he associated with the Molly Hooper model of emotional reactions.

He decided then, that since this thanks was not enough, he would require something more thought-provoking, of greater signficance to really demonstrate his gratitude to Molly.

But as he consulted all best and available data, discussions with John, Mrs. Hudson [even an attempt with a cashier at Sainsbury's], Sherlock remained at an impasse.

What can you give to someone who gave you your life again?

* * *

The reception area of Spencer, Billingham and Adams, draped in sophisticated furnishings, was purposely designed to impress and intimidate all who came in.

Though its intention was lost on our detective, who sat bored stiff across from the prim secretary [artificial blonde hair twirled by shaking fingers, indicating an imminent smoking break]. The silence of the reception grew to be too much and before he could lose his mind to the ennui of the place, Sherlock loudly informed the secretary, who jumped up in surprise at his voice, that he would wait outside.

There were two smokers already there, puffing away against the wall. He stood a reasonable distance from them, although their voices, full of mirth and girlish pitch, carried over to him.

He delved back into his mind, drawing the case out to begin his work. The scars made on the dead lawyer's hands and cheeks, incorrect depth for a paper cut, obviously a kind of letter knife was employed, consistency of cuts were indicative of emotional response, therefore the attack resembled a revenge-motivated murder.

"So he apologized?" A soft voice filtered intrusively into his mind.

Sherlock seized the scent as a wind brought over a cloud of thick smoke. His last cigarette, fourth of August, Beijing. He looked down wistfully at his arms.

"well, in his own special away." The second voice was particularly sly. Sherlock peered at them by the corners of his eye, a sneaking glance revealed the sight of two women, late twenties [Interns, presumably by their modest clothing and brand of cigarette]. The second woman spoke again. "So Alec brings over a bottle of Pinot Grigio, I think okay, so he's sorry..."

"But.."

"But then we have a drink so half the bottle is gone and then he gets on his knees." The two women laughed crassly. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the dull turn of their conversation but before he makes his way back inside, the second woman speaks again, her voice huskier than before. "So he pushes my legs apart and starts to kiss up my thighs. At this point, I'm melting. But he keeps going."

"Well that's one way to show his gratitude." Another harrowing laugh follows but abruptly ends as the two women turned sideways to face the man now staring unabashedly at them.

The other woman gawks while her companion, a cigarette dangling carelessly from her mouth, asks in a curt tone.

"Can I help you?"

To their surprise, Sherlock only grins, a pronounced smirk widens over his face.

* * *

It was an enlightening idea, Sherlock noted, the act of intimacy as means of gratitude was undoubtedly an old-age tradition. John employed it frequently in situations of displeased girlfriends. To his recollection, Sherlock remembers that their moods increased positively, and given their appreciative calls during the process, the end results were far from unsatisfactory.

Further research online [John's computer used for this occasion] affirmed the notion of pleasuring a woman orally would be beneficial for mutual parties.

Excellent, he could thank Molly in a way most satisfying to her and gain the benefit of a happy pathologist, all the better for both of them.

There was little to suggest that Molly would dislike the idea. He was assured of her sexuality, clearly heterosexual, as exhibited by her past partners, her distinctively feminine attire and the presence of a concealed calender of 'naughty firemen' he spotted in her locker. Furthermore, she was unattached and her history of repetitive and uninteresting suitors would indicate a rather boring sex life. Not to forget Molly's obvious attraction to him would be even more advantageous to her. As Sherlock considered these variables, he was certain that this gift could not be bestow at a better time.

Of course he would have to put side his previous notions about intimacy for the evening. While he could not be more inaccurately described by Moriarty's nickname, 'The Virgin' [a university fling his first, a cold reunion with Ms. Adler, his last], he did have reservations, _disagreements_, with the frivolity of intimacy. It was an unnecessary distraction which could only interfere and disturb his work. He consoled himself with the knowledge that this was to be a brief arrangement, no possibility of forming a habit. And once she considered the finality of his tone, he was assured that Molly would come to a similar conclusion.

Content with this confidence, Sherlock began to set the plan into motions. _For Molly_, he thought proudly of his unselfishness.

* * *

His plan was simple put. Sherlock, under the guise of a case, would invite Molly out for the evening. She would join him under the pretense of being his 'escort', not unusual for her as Molly became well versed in Sherlock's methods of investigation, during their time together in his exile. He contemplated the option of taking her out to dinner, however the traditional setting appeared too much of an advance, a risk of affection Sherlock was keen to avoid.

Fortunately, he found the perfect venue that day; a wine tasting event in Soho. As he arrived at Barts, at the end of her shift, he patted down his suit, his front pocket containing two tickets [courtesy of his brother, blissfully unaware that he had been pick pocketed during his visit to Baker Street that day].

Although Molly was tired, the promise of alcohol and adventure [_and his company also_, Sherlock thought arrogantly] was enough incentive to persuade her to accept his offer somewhat happily, with the condition that she could return home to change beforehand.

And with that, they set out for Soho, both oblivious to what the evening had in store for them.

_Later that evening_

"So...we drank th-the romannee-what?"

"Romanée Conti."

"Was that the one I spilt on my skirt?"

"Yes. An eighty-four thousand pounds stain."

"Oh-ohdear god. No wonder that man was glaring at me!"

"I thought he was rather smitten with you."

"Was that before or after I split his very-very-expensive wine?"

"Before the incident, obviously."

Molly moaned sadly, tugging the hem of her skirt. Sherlock observed the dazed smile on her face, her slowing gait and slurred speech, all indicating a relaxed mood. She had been pleasant company, excluding the incident of split wine but it was made up to him as Molly fumbled to make amends with the gentleman, accidently uttering an offhand pun, "shouldn't cry over split milk" as means of apology. The expression on the face of the distinguished Frenchman was enough to keep Sherlock amused for days. He thought kindly of it as he steered a very tipsy Molly away from the increasingly irritable gentleman.

The stage of his plan, to lubricate Molly to a certain level, ensuring her ease but not to inebriation, was moving steadily as they walked around the gala. He contently noted that as she consumed more wine, the more comfortable she became at his side and as soon as he was satisifed that she was in the perfect mood for the final act, he lead them out of the venue.

He immediately hailed a cab down, directed the cabbie towards her house and guided a quiet Molly into the car before settling in beside her. Their trip was silent for most the way. Sherlock, too focused on the procession of styles, approaches, unraveling in his mind, as he decided on the best method of bringing up the subject to her.

"So, did you get to talk to the suspect?" She rasped softly, pulling Sherlock back into the cab and out of one particularly 'interesting' scenario.

"Hmm? No."

"Oh. I'm sorry." She mumbled.

He turned to her with a look of confusion.

She answered him with a small wave, "Sorry it's been a waste of an evening. For the case."

He contemplated answering but felt anything but the truth would be entirely inappropriate. Fortunately, his answer didn't matter anyway as she was unaffected by his silence, staring contentedly out of the window.

They finally arrived at her street and as she fumbled out the door, her heel caught in the gap between the street and the cab.

"I'll escort you upstairs."

"No-no, I'm fine...I'm fine." She tripped again as she spoke.

His answer was final, gripping her arm tight as they walked up the steps. The silence from the cab followed them inside the building as Molly jumbled through her purse for the keys.

"This is my door. Isn't it? No, yes, my door-this door." She mumbled to herself, before pushing into her flat.

She was either unaware or didn't care that he followed her inside. Molly fell ungracefully onto her sofa, sinking into the large cushions. Sherlock stood from afar, though his eyes were running over her furniture, the familiarity of the room swfitly coming back to him, his mind was racing through his next action.

Her unconscious choice of location was most helpful, the sofa being the easiest and most comfortable place to initiate his plan.

He was weighing up the options of the prerequisite of kissing her neck or whether a more direct, somewhat hasty approach would suffice when she suddenly groaned.

"Here, let me." He walked over, knees bent down as he began to remove her shoes, the subject of her discomfort.

They had been a surprisingly part of his evening, the red strapping heels were not an item Sherlock had ever imagine Molly would own, let alone wear. There were indeed a new purchase, considering their barely worn soles and her apprehensive pace in them.

Her eyes were closed, head leaned back against the sofa, as Sherlock glided his hands over her feet, removing the shoes quickly.

Then suddenly Sherlock took notice of his position. _He got on his knees._

The thought quickly dried his mouth and the scenarios, previously alight in his mind, seemed to disappear as he sat, frozen in his stance.

Did he overcompensate his confidence for this evening? Possibly. A bunch of expensive flowers didn't seem so an insignificant gift now. He dismissed these thoughts immediately, remembering his duty.

"Molly."

Molly shifted her body slightly, his hands still wrapped around her ankles.

"Molly, although I have previously discussed this with you, I would like to again, express my-Are you listening?"

"Hmm? Yes, yes." Molly muttered, her eyes still closed. "I think I am."

"Well I have been trying...trying with great difficulty to properly formulate such an expression of thanks and-"

She moaned, interrupting him mid sentence. He looked to his hands, to see that during his speech, they had moved up to her thighs.

"You were very important to me. I-I could have never done what I did without-without you.."

He was sure she wasn't listening now, her eyes were firmly shut but her mouth was parted open.

" And I wish- I wish.." He grounded himself, ending his pitiful stutter. Molly, still inattentive to his speech, moaned softly again.

"I wish to express that gratitude in a way...pleasurable..." _Sod it. _His mouth fell awkwardly onto the skin of her leg.

Undeterred by her stiffen posture, aware that she was staring directly down at him with wide eyes, he moves his lips, tentatively at first, across the skin.

The sharp intake of breath tells him she's alert now, in short, her consent is shared in the expel of a shallow moan, so he continues up, albeit slowly, until his mouth reaches the inside of her thighs. He pauses, awaiting a slap or a shove, but Molly only groans louder, the sound echoes in his ears as his other hand grips onto her leg.

Clinical images printed across the forefront of his mind, as he replays the pornographic loop he acquired that morning, the inspiration between his moves. The statuesque blonde, from John's laptop, however has already begun to transform, her faint white hair darkening to a familiar brown.

He's following the strict routine of the man in the video, his lips mimicking his, over Molly's skin, an action that suddenly pushes her to grab his hair forcefully.

Stealing a look, he sees her, eyes wide open, no movement bar her heaving chest [breathing speed has increased, eyes dilated, he fears that the thudding in his ears is not her heartbeat, but his own.]

Then the loop stutters, the moving couple halts and Sherlock with them as the warmth of Molly's legs against his heated face, the scent of wine from her skirt, mixed with her bath soap, _all these useless pieces of information, _flood his mind.

In an attempt to distract his overpowered senses, he ducks his head underneath her skirt, his lips immediately pressing against her. She jolts unexpectedly, pushing forward her hips into his face, in a way he could only describe as _distracting._

The hands in his hair are gripping him painfully, so with her blessing, Sherlock pulls out his head before rather roughly pushing up her skirt. Whether she shivers because of the sudden chill to her exposed skin or whether it was his kiss, ghosting over her, getting closer than before, Sherlock cares not.

He silently recites his technique as he gently pushes aside her panties [Baby blue, cotton, more irrelevant information]. _A gentle kiss at the opening, then press tongue to the center of labia, lather clitoris for one to three minutes before the insertion of fingers. _He certainly does not note the softness of her under his tongue nor does he take pleasure in the audible moaning chant, flowing from her mouth. "Yes. yes."

He trials a move; his lips enclose over the nib, sucking it deep inside his mouth, she responses in kind with a sudden pull of his head. Sherlock continues with Molly's hands, steadily holding him close to her. Pleased with the increased wetness emanating from her, Sherlock utilizes his shaking fingers next.

The ministrations are short-lived, as Molly, under his mouth and hand, begins to quiver. Sherlock awaits the rushed exclaim of moans, the sounds the blonde made he doubts Molly will repeat, but he is disappointed when she only utters a low moan, devoid of any words, including his name.

His own body reactions ignored, [its presence, unsurprising given the circumstances] Sherlock deals her a soft, final kiss. They sit for a moment just as they are, Molly slumped onto the sofa, her breathing, yet to return to its normal pace and Sherlock, rests against her thighs, the adrenaline still speeding through him.

Then it passes.

Sherlock abruptly removes himself from the position between Molly's legs, the discomfort of the situation begins to dawn on him as he tries to extract himself from Molly's grasp. He almost thinks he hears a sad sigh as he places her hands back to her, but when he looks up, he sees that she has already crawled up into a sleeping ball.

Unsure of what to do, [he had planned and prepared for the awkward aftermath of light conversation], Sherlock stands there, frozen in step and watches Molly's body rise and fall. He's certain that she couldn't have fallen asleep so quickly, mere moments after she was gasping, alert and alive under his touch. But nevertheless, he makes no attempt to disturb her. He pulls a cover off the edge of the sofa and throws it gently over her. He hovers awkwardly before heading straight to the door. But before he could turn the handle, he hears a soft voice call out from the sofa. "Thank you."

With nothing more to say, Sherlock nods hesitantly, before he exits the flat, down the stairs and out the building into the brisk, cold evening of London.

_A gift well received. _


	2. His Infliction

For any confusion; it's set in a Post R-F with a tentative friendship.

For further enlightenment, read Chapter one.

This does not serve as a faithful or even worthy sequel, for I like the way this ended.

But here goes. A Friday night creation, born from jazz reggae and Eddie Izzard. (that's the explanation if it comes off odd and mismatched)

As always, apologies in advance and compliments are to be taken with cake and tea. And most certainly, not death.

* * *

It be another year before Sherlock Holmes finds himself again in the scandalous position, _of being on one's knees_. Although he knows of many that would relish the sight she bears, [stocking legs leading up to a ruby-coloured smile of Ms. Alder] the whole picture only serves to remind Sherlock of his unease.

And of a very misguided attempt twelve months ago.

For all the noise in his mind, he misses her speech, a soft purr she makes as her hands take hold of his ruffled curls.

"I've never seen you so-inviting." The Women doesn't miss a chance to sink into the wound, delighting in Sherlock's obvious state of vulnerability. "I suppose I was always right."

Sherlock snorts just as a finger twines itself around a curl, the subsequent tug pulls him up to face her.

"There's really no need for ambiguity, Ms. Alder." He remarks very bluntly.

"Beg." She scolds him. "I always said I could make you beg. And here you are."

"So it would seem. But I rather think, from my view, that you might be the one who'll do the begging." He compliments the seductive tone with a quick grab for her legs, shuffling her until the stocking legs are hoisted over his shoulders. A pungent scent of Jasmine wafts straight through his nose while Ms. Alder, pleased with his boldness, settles herself in comfortably.

Why bother with words now? He certainly didn't bring her out to soothe her with conversation. No, his objective was in focus as he appraised her. She is to be his cure, to rid him of his unusual ailment of the past year.

It began not suddenly, almost like a creeping shadow and it wasn't until he awoke from his bed a morning, with a heavy warmth to his stomach did Sherlock realize the full implication of his evening with Molly Hooper.

At first, it was the nights. His once unburdened dreams now consisted of sharp images (memories, if he's honest), of hair, legs, hands. With an imagination he hadn't expected, his dreams turned her into a series, a Molly Hooper special, where the demure pathologist played the starring role as his silent but enthusiastic lover. Gone was her ratty couch, the set now made up of his bed, the sofa and even, her office desk for one particular dream.

While Sherlock struggled, Molly seem to be completely unaffected by that evening. Sherlock tries to recall the exact amount of alcohol she digested, surely it wasn't enough to rid Molly of the entire memory. He surely tried to do so but if his dreams are to tell, they only speak of his failure in that respect.

He had faith that this infliction could be easily resolved. An intense uptake of new cases and nicotine patches provided a good distraction for at least the first month. But the dreams only escaped their night-time medium, preferring to show up at most inconvenient moments of his day.

He cringed at the memory of himself, frozen at his stool as he greedily watched Molly spill her fragrant hair from its tie. The familiar perfume, hitting his nose just as the images of _her, him, them_ flooded over. Could she have known when he mumbled some useless excuse, making a steady exit before she had time to shut her gaping mouth.

The dreams were an annoyance, as much as they were harmless. But they were beginning to compromise his functionality, his own principles which stood tested against this surge of 'trivial emotions'.

In the end, he sentenced them both to a strict ruling. Visits to Barts were curbed and all contact with Molly ceased, just until he got it out of his system.

But that plan went to dust, as months past, dreams continued, and what first appeared to be a three patch problem turned into a packet a day nightmare.

John didn't take too kindly to the smoking. Nor did Mrs. Hudson, whose kitchen table fell victim to a many cigarette burn.

But what anger they felt for Sherlock could hardly match his own. He'd had enough of this. Of her, so unfairly controlling his subconscious in a way he would have never allowed before. He was begrudgingly powerless to a woman who didn't even remember that stupid mistake.

With angry determination, Sherlock finished his last cigarette before he sent a text.  
_  
You mentioned an offer for dinner? I'm inclined to accept. - SH_

* * *

And here now, in a damp Bed and Breakfast in Leeds, Sherlock sits with the Woman he called to erase the memory of another.

"I can practically see it pulsing."

Sherlock fell back into the room, Ms. Adler's hands caressing his temple almost affectionately.

He cleared his throat before asking, "See what?"

Adler's fingers trace over a prominent vein on the side of Sherlock's mind, "Your mind. It buzzes but with what, I endeavour to know."

The same hands would not hesitant in slapping him cruelly if she truly knew what was speeding through his thoughts. So he softens her with a fib.

"You'll find out soon enough." And with that, Sherlock leans forward to rest his lips upon her, Ms. Adler replies only in a sinful moan.

This is how he envisioned it. Effectively fucking Molly Hooper out of his mind. He would (did) feel nothing for her afterwards, his night with a past lover would instantly dull little mousy Molly.

He can sense Ms. Adler's impatience so he rewards her with a breathy kiss onto her thigh. _A kiss here, a kiss there._

He throws himself pathetically into the warmth of her legs, already feeling the drain of the past months melt with each calculative moan from the woman beneath him.

"This is not how I left you." He hears her murmur but he presses his tongue deep into her deeper, causing her voice to twirl into a surprised grunt.

Yes. That's what he's so desperate to hear. With her dew on his lips, he pulls back to employ his fingers, a steady thrust into her makes the Woman rejoice in a smooth moan.

Through his own haze of passion, he lets himself fall under the Woman's power. His mind plays back the image of stained lips, sharpening into a smirk, his tongue fuelled by the thought of them, stretched over the bed, a pair of red nail fingers run over his back as he heaves inside her.

A warmth spreads excitedly over his stomach and below, he feels it with almost a sense of relief.

Under his passion, the Woman is surprisingly edging closer, the intensity of her moans resound in his ears as he quickens his tongue. God, with a final flash of Irene, draped over his own body, Sherlock bites onto her nib and with that, Ms. Adler shudders, not before articulating her pleasure in a heap of deep purrs.

He retreats with a smirk, delighted that once again, the Woman fell to him. But as he looks up to see her, his heart drops. A soft hand, nails bare of any polish, gently caress his cheek and with a sweet, lazy smile, Molly Hooper mouths something to him.

He jolts back in shock, jumping up from the ground while the legs of Ms. Adler are dropped unceremoniously. The Woman returns to his sight, obviously shaken from her satiation by his abrupt move. He hears her taunt unkindly. "Oh, don't act so coy."

She's not spared a response as Sherlock seizes his coat off a chair before storming out of the room, into the night.

* * *

Thanks for popping by. Te quiero.


	3. His Addiction

A warm thankyou to the lovely reviewers. You're a delight, each one of you.

I reccomend listening to 'Rainy Mood dot com' for this piece. It adds a little something something to it.

* * *

The slit of a window, mounted high onto the morgue's wall, gave a sight of ghastly weather. Drops splashed loudly against the fogged glass, adding to an atmosphere that was, for most, already spooking enough.

But Molly felt at peace, with the raging storm outside. That was until the lab doors cracked open, a march of footsteps marked the entrance of two figures, their coats drenched in water.

The first man, Molly recognised warmly as The Inspector, unraveling a tartan scarf from his face, while his companion stood stiffly, a pitter patter of drops leaking from his dark coat. She hadn't expected to see Sherlock Holmes looking quite like a drowned cat but there he was. Underneath a crown of drenched curls that stuck unflattering onto his face, a scowl could be made out.

She forged a smile, directing them both to a temporary heater in the corner by her desk. With their coats removed, the Inspector began his inquiries, all in the absence of any involvement from the Detective by his side, an act which poured ill ease into Molly's stomach and gave the Inspector an odd look.

Nevertheless, Molly walked them over towards her working slab, her recent patient lying patiently.

"Marcus Manning. I've done the first preliminary report on the contents of his stomach."

"Wife says he was a part time user."

"That would be consistent with the markings on his arm." She pulled down the sheet to show them both the man's forearm, ladled with purple marks.

This casual banter went on between her and the Inspector for several minutes, without any interruption, much to the suspicion of Molly.

Her worries were not soothed by his expression either, for Sherlock Holmes looked indeed mad. She placated herself - she hadn't seen him for months, surely his ire wasn't directed at her but still, with hollowed eyes, he scowled down at her as she worked.

Finally did the Inspector take notice of the unprecedented tension, he nudged his companion alert. "So-what you think?"

A mellow answer drawled from Sherlock's mouth. "I would need to see that report before I make any conclusion."

Molly nodded instantly, and began to make her way towards the office, to retrieve the document when-

"And a towel."

She stopped at the blunt demand and swiveled quickly back 'round. "-Sorry, what?"

"I need a towel from the cleaner's cupboard." Sherlock repeated rather rudely.

He fixed a tight smile, "If you don't mind." The deceit of his politeness came off as soon as the same smile slipped away before Molly had even turned her back. He's not even bothering to hide his hostility towards her.

She hurried away, relishing each step that took her further away from the two men until she had reached the cleaning closet.

Inside the tiny sanctuary, Molly kicked an unsuspecting mop bucket. This was ridiculous! On what earth could she have done to cause such a cold reaction. Her mind needn't drift too far before she hit on one possibility.

She hadn't spoken a single word about that evening to anyone. As if she could. Her friends would laugh in disbelief, his enemies would demand proof. There would be no conviction, not even she can recall the incident with any solid memory.

At first, she thought it to be a very embarrassing dream, fiction made up from alcohol and close contact, until she caught Sherlock, one afternoon, eyes fixed on her, a peak of a tongue lathered his lip in a strikingly familiar way. He probably realised this too, and from that afternoon, she hardly saw him but for scarce greetings.

But warranting his ire now? Did she bother him the next day? No. Did she show any expectations of something more? No, she sat and she bit her nails into oblivion, cursing herself and him for teasing the little ounce of hope she had left.

What good was her curiosity, when she knew that the likelihood of him, explaining the evening to her, as a venture in experimenting was real, the last struck to kill any affection she held for him.

She owed nothing to Sherlock Holmes, her debt was paid in her silence, for his death, for his work and now for this. Was she going to let him to dangle her further when her own heart had been strung up?

"No." Molly whispered to the darkness of the closet.

A twist of determination gathered up Molly's strength to venture outside, knowing that her disappearance would be noticeable by now, when suddenly, she was sprayed in light.

Her eyes barely adjusted to the sudden brightness, but she caught sight of a flash of coat, before the supply door closed again, eloping them both in darkness.

His breathing was too erratic for a healthy man as he, but it ravaged on without any of the words she expected him to berate her with.

For once, she may have the first line. "I haven't got your towel."

"I gathered as much." A too smooth reply for her liking.

But the dim light under the door, that slid across his face, revealed him to be quite unlike his coolness. The scowl had disappeared, thus given way to a more harrowing look. Pain etched in his features, his mouth and eyes slumped in stress.

Molly recognised it immediately, scolded herself for not seeing it sooner. Sherlock was struggling with something beyond her. A memory of a past time, (of a ragged man, begging for help) long before all this, poured inside her and she reached out into the darkness, to grasp his wrist.

"What do you need?"

Her kind words did not have the effect she had anticipated.

She was pushed against the wall, her wrists were twisted into the air, held captive by forceful hands.

"Sherlock!"

"That's a phenomenally _stupid_ question—being the answer, so obvious. What I _need_, I could have done before-I could divorce myself from these feelings. And I have. Even before you, with her-The woman of all souls." He ragged off into a hysteric, exasperated laugh.

Molly ripped her wrists away, pushing Sherlock forcefully until his back hit the far wall. She drew her arms out in protective pose in front of her.

"Are you-are you high?" She asked bluntly, recalling hushed rumours in corridors, snarky remarks from constables about his previous 'hobbies.'

He snorted.

"Are you mad?" Her whisper came off in a panic she rather disliked but she could hardly deny the surge of fear that was coursing through her.

"That-is beginning to be hard to dispute."

"What is wrong with you!"

"-Haven't you ever seen a man in love?" He jests in cruel humor, there's no denying the edge of bitterness to his tone, but he stares at her in earnest pain.

"Sherlock, you are unwell-you're not your-"

"Oh come now, Molly-It's the confession you've been dying to hear! Would it please you to know that I dream of you almost every night? Not a single night has passed since last year without you."

"Sherlock, please-"

" No, it's true. And the nights are not enough! Are you satisfied to know that my days are hijacked much the same? Productivity-Clarity of mind, ruined by such a trivial feeling. A plague it is, this lust-only the scourge of banality would wish it upon themselves! So since you asked, _since you always ask_, my only answer will be this, Leave. Me. Alone." Ending his speeding rant, Sherlock angrily spat out these final words.

The detective is pushed again into the wall, this time with greater force, but he has barely any time to recover before the supply door is flung open, and Molly Hooper, escapes into the fluorescent light of the lab.

* * *

I have loved ones.

I have committments.

But if you need a shovel to hide my body, I know a guy.

(thanks for popping by.)


	4. His Torture

A short interlude.

This takes place just before Sherlock's unfortunate return to Barts and did well to influence his behaviour that day.

Someone described this story as morbidly funny. You're not wrong. I prefer things on that side.

(I'm venturing into oc-land, forgive darling, forgive)

* * *

Pinkish shapes dance over his eyelids as Sherlock begins to stir from his sleep. He rolls away from the morning light, only to bump into a lying figure beside him.

Without warning, Sherlock became entangled within arms and legs, as the figure merged into the warmth of him, her head perched upon his chest.

He needn't bother looking down to determine the identity of his mystery guest, for she has rather overstayed her time in his mind of late.

Sherlock felt a strange drop in his stomach as he bent his head down to stare at the woman now placing her lips upon his chest in soft, faint kisses.

It is without restraint that Sherlock returns her affections with his own. He brings up her chin with his hand and wastes no time in taking her mouth into his with undisguised want.

They continue as so - slow, open kisses when suddenly, Molly prods Sherlock onto his back and rolls herself on top of him.

Through a cascade of brown hair, she shyly smiles up at him and he feels his own face, contorting into a facsimile of hers. Her power to force such a reaction from him is unnerving but he's spared no time to dwell on it as she pulls him back.  
_  
Distracting._

Fiddling hands sit awkwardly in her hair, he grips its soft strands in bunches as he puts more and more into their kiss. Her own hands have wandered below the sheets, fingertips trace his arm, then his stomach and pelvis line, catching Sherlock off guard.

Her replying laugh leaves him embarrassed - the switch of roles, her draining him of his usual control makes him wonder where does little Mousy Molly go when she lies here with him.

He thinks to pull away, to take back her power trip with vengeance but he's stopped, catching sight of her curling smile, mouthing out silent words he can't make out but their meaning is obvious. She attempts to complete her apology with another slow kiss- but Sherlock draws the line.

He pushes himself onto her with assertive eagerness, much unlike the soft kisses of before. He's partly gleeful when she responds meekly (She's not the only unpredictable one) but then she begins to match him for each stride.

He lets lust overtake him (a useless desire, but preferable to the alternative) and soon, they're panting, gasping for breath while their hands drift over each other hungrily. It was too warm, too soft before-he prefers her with dilated pupils, reddened cheeks, a hunger much like his own.

He shoves his hand into her knickers and proceeds to make rough circles around her clit.

"Tsk, tsk. You'll burn her out that way."

He whisks his head violently around Molly's head, his sight stopping short of the bed end.

The Woman stands there, a hand on her waist as the other sits under her chin, one finger delicately tapping her lip in an inquisitive pose.

In true fashion, the Woman ignores his astonishment and continues to observe the two as if it were a day at the zoo.

Molly, oblivious to the intruder, continues to grind herself against him with her back turned, its effects on Sherlock force him into letting out a helpless moan.

"Oh dear, it's worse than we thought." The Woman murmurs almost sympathetically, a stark contradiction to her wicked smile.

"It's only lust."

Sherlock recognises the drawl tone immediately and his whole body cringes at the sound of his brother's dry voice, though he's nowhere to be seen.

"No-" The Woman draws nearer, her hand runs against the edge of the bed, Sherlock's eyes widen in anticipation, his pulse furiously beating, all the while with an eager Molly, continuing to take her pleasures on top of him.

The Woman hovers above them, tilting her head in solemn glee before whispering.

"Well-what does the good doctor say? Is the _great_ Sherlock Holmes in love?"

Sherlock angrily rips his gaze away from the Woman, only to fall under Molly's. Reddened cheeks, dilated pupils stare back at him, with a mouth curled in confusion.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes run over her face mechanically, unable to reply as his pulse quickens, the blood rush to his ears begins to form a chant, a constant thud consisting of only one word.

_Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes_

* * *

The alarm clock exploded into flying bits of plastic as it smashed against the wall, its assailant held his head down with shaking hands, now alone and cold in the empty bedroom, the haunts of his dreams have since left him.

* * *

Apologies, darlings. but bless you for reading!


End file.
